The new season will also see the débuts of many artists, such as the conductors Thomas Adès, Tomáš Netopil, Yannick Nézet-Séguin and the directors of all six new productions: Kasper Holten, Lev Dodin, Pierre Audi, Uwe Eric Laufenberg, Irina Brook and Robert Lepage. The singers who will be performing for audiences at the Wiener Staatsoper for the first time in 2014/2015 will include Maria Bengtsson, Alice Coote, Elizabeth DeShong, Aida Garifullina, Kathryn Lewek, Audrey Luna, Erin Morley, Ekaterina Semenchuk, Carole Wilson, Wolfgang Ablinger-Sperrhacke, Andreas Conrad, David Daniels, Ryan Speedo Green, David Pershall, Mikhail Petrenko, and Dmytro Popov.

Sunday, 27 April 2014

Daniele Gatti had not
conducted the LSO since 1996, so it was more than time to put that right. The
orchestra has not always recently had the happiest of times with Mahler:
nothing to do with the orchestra itself, everything to do with largely
uncomprehending conducting by Valery Gergiev. This concert, however, made it
clear that the LSO remains a Mahler orchestra to be reckoned with. Gatti, whose
Philharmonia
Mahler Fifth in 2012 was the finest performance I have heard ‘live’ of a
work that often proves problematical in performance, turned his hand with
excellent results to its still more problematical sibling.

The first movement opened and
in general – but not always – proceeded in deliberate fashion: not quite
Klemperer, but with some of his doggedness, if not his plain-spokenness. If I
say that its great span seemed longer than usual – and I suspect that it was –
I do not mean to imply that such length was an impediment, far from it. But
rather this was a reading whose weight entailed effort; it was quite rightly
not a journey to be embarked upon, or indeed to be continued, at all lightly.
For what it is worth, a performance that began at 7.35 finished at about 9.05. Sitting considerably farther forward than I usually do, indeed farther forward
than is probably ideal, with only two rows between me and the stage, the
orchestral effort was revealed to me in more than usually physical fashion. But
as so often, there are compensations: for the losses in blend, there were gains
in well-nigh overpowering immediacy – and, at times, sheer volume too. In a
performance which set the scene for the rest of the symphony, Gatti did not
take Daniel
Barenboim’s path, which to my initial surprise, has turned out to work
extraordinarily well both live and on CD, of transforming Mahler’s symphony
into something more akin to Brahms, in other words of forcing the material to
make sense. Instead, Gatti revelled in Mahler’s discontinuities; this was, one
might say, whether consciously or otherwise, a veritably Adornian reading.

Lest I be misunderstood, I do
not mean something merely chaotic; there has, in a sense, to be an overall line
posited before discontinuity can assert itself in positive fashion. That there
most certainly was, and that it most certainly did, the LSO’s virtuosity
enabling it to follow him and to lead us. Moreover, the echoes of the Sixth Symphony
resounded perhaps more strongly than ever I have previously heard: partly, I
think, a result of the deliberate tempo, partly a result of the almost
superhuman effort with which the strings dug into their instruments, and partly
a result of a sure harmonic understanding which guided the discontinuous
progress almost as a parody of the earlier work: a parody which wanted to
match, which was doomed to fail, and which yet in that failure revealed
something different.

The three inner movements
were rightly taken as parts of a greater whole. Here the full garishness,
horror, and sweetness of nightmares whose truth we never quite come to believe
in were properly revealed, as much through orchestral colour as command of line
and rubato. Wherever we were led, there was no doubt that this was the
intention. Rhythms recalled old Vienna – or should that, at least in Mahler’s
case, be new Vienna? – and the parade ground. Mahler’s scoring registered with
the greatest sensitivity: I can rarely have heard the mandolin so clearly and
with such Don Giovanni-like subversion, and the cowbells sounded miraculously
from the distance with an atmospheric perfection I should have thought quite
beyond the Barbican’s acoustic. If night fell with relative – and this is
certainly only relative – normality at the opening of the first Nachtmusik, and all manner of deathly
creatureshaunted the scherzo, the
disturbing charms of the second Nachtmusik
beguiled, seduced, and, in context, unsettled at least as much as what had gone
before. With this symphony, and in this performance, nothing was ever quite
what it seemed – but consciously, or perhaps sub-consciously so.

The Meistersinger echoes of the finale tried, as they would, to wake us
from the nightmare, but that nightmare or those nightmares perhaps proved all
the more difficult to dispel on account of their ambiguities. When Bernstein,
for instance, in his magnificent but very different final recording, lets loose
the spirits of Hell, one feels that that is just what they are. Here, the daemons
were unclear, and we were unclear who or what they were – which is perhaps why
they never really left the stage at all. The end was properly inconclusive;
Mahler’s symphony had been made strange once more.

A celebration in style for
the Arditti Quartet: no fewer than three concerts throughout the day. I had
hoped to attend all three, but in the event had to settle for just the evening
concert, which boasted one of three world premieres, the others having been the
third quartets of James Clarke and Hilda Paredes (Bitácora capilar). I also missed hearing works by Jonathan Harvey, Carter,
Kurtág, Lachenmann, Hèctor Parra, Georg Friedrich Haas, and Ligeti. Still, what
I heard offered a Birtwistle premiere, and works by Wolfgang Rihm, Tosho
Hosokawa, Brian Ferneyhough, Pascal Dusapin, and Xenakis, so there remained
plenty to fascinate to thrill, and yes, to beguile. A quartet which, since its
first concert in 1974, has performed and recorded hundreds of new works, many
of them Arditti commissions, has an extraordinary amount to celebrate looking
back, of which this could only be a tiny fraction, but also still to anticipate,
hence the premieres. The concert I heard was typically excellent, no fewer than
six works granted advocacy as impressive as conceivable, indeed arguably more
impressive than conceivable.

Rihm’s Fetzen (‘Scraps’) offered a wonderful ‘overture’, in many ways more
individual than much of the composer’s music I have heard. The first is almost
a mini-concerto, the first violin’s part more than first among equals; it put
me in mind of Berg’s Concerto more than once, and indeed, much of the language
of both seems recognisably post-Schoenbergian, the ‘Peripeteia’ of op.16 also
coming to mind (despite the obvious differences in colour!) Repeated blows of
demarcation bring the short movement to a close. Following a strikingly
frenetic second violin opening, the second piece has the material taken up by
the other instruments of the quartet; ‘mechanism’ at times seems somewhat
Stravinskian, certainly quite a contrast with Fetzen I. The closing chorale, anything but triumphant, provides a
fragile, even ghostly conclusion, the players’ hush not the least of this
performance’s qualities.

Hosokawa’s Silent Flowers proved more abrasive than
lazy Orientalist readings of its title might have suggested; this is certainly
not Takemitsu. There is – and in performance was – a very strong sense of
progression, of, as it were, the lives of these organisms unfolding. Kinship
with Webern and Nono became increasingly apparent, though the work is – perhaps
unsurprisingly – more expansive than the music of the former. The role of
silences as well as quiet playing is particularly noticeable: one was, as with
Nono and indeed Webern, made to listen. In the composer’s words, ‘Sounds also
come from and return to silence.’

Ferneyhough’s third quartet
concluded the first half. The expressivity, again not un-Schoenbergian of its
febrile opening would persist throughout, making one listen again, albeit in a
very different way. In a truer sense than the debased ‘neo-Romantic’ has sadly come
to mean, and as remarked upon by Ralf Ehlers, this work, like Ferneyhough’s
œuvre more generally, could readily be understood to stand as an idealistic
heir to German Romanticism. There was irrationality, yes, but it was
irrationality that was anything but ‘arbitrary’; Ehlers spoke of exactitude in
notation that was yet akin to ‘notated rubato’. As with Schoenberg, something
akin to the ‘Idea’ was the thing. Solo passages – for instance, the second
violin at the opening of the second movement, the scintillating viola at its
close – were as ‘expressive’ in their communication as the complex, yet never
unduly complex, whole. Yes, as the composer put it, ‘the second movement
explodes into an iridescent flood of irate images.’

Birtwistle’s Hoquetus Irvineus, dedicated to ‘Irvine
and his lovely boys’, proved a winning pièce
d’occasion with which to open the second half. The syncopations of hocket
and something not so very far from post-Stravinskian swing offered an
experience that both drew one in as a listener and was also, quite simply, good
fun. Grinding of typical Birtwistle mechanisms propelled the music along,
leaving one satisfied yet wanting more.

‘Ah yes, said Carnier, lente,
lente, and circumspection, with deviations to right and left and sudden
reversals of course.’ With those words from Beckett’s Mercier et Carnier, Dusapin begins the score of his fifth quartet.
That ‘lente’ is certainly characteristic, though this is not a slowness that tires.
The opening, high-lying first violin lyricism, accompanied by pizzicato from
the others, certainly offered time to enjoy the view, whatever that may be, in
properly Beckett-like fashion uncertain as to the destination, which may not
even have existed. Quiet yet incessant chatter – late inheritance of Xenakis’s
swarms? – offers quite another experience, prior to the relative resolution of
the close.

Finally, Xenakis’s Tetras. From first violin to second
violin to the quartet as a whole, the ‘uncompromising’ – perhaps a cliché by
now, but surely apt in this case – opening proved characteristic of work and
performance as a whole. The combination of novelty and familiarity to scales
and arpeggios suggest a parallel, maybe alien world: more so, arguably, than
the frankly extra-terrestrial ambitions of Stockhausen. One passage sounded as
if it might have been musique concrète;
I had to check that I was indeed listening to a string quartet. This final
performance offered the commanding virtuosity of what, for this ensemble, has
become a repertory piece. Silence at the close had no need to be enforced; it
was the only possible reaction.

Premiered in May last year,
Katie Mitchell’s production of Frank Martin’s oratorio, Le Vin herbé, is now revived in fine form by the Berlin State Opera.
Mitchell’s tendency towards one-size-fits-all suits some works better than
others, but is in any case more restrained here. One perhaps also has greater
liberty – or at least greater immunity from werktreu
charges of desecration – in staging an oratorio anyway. Interestingly, the
first staging took place as early as 1948, at the Salzburg Festival under
Ferenc Fricsay, no less, only six years after the Zurich Madrigal Choir gave
the first performance of the completed version (the first part having been
performed by the same choir two years earlier than that). Mitchell’s approach
is metatheatrical, as one would expect, but without the paraphernalia of
cameras and so forth; rather, we see a dramatisation of, if not the first
performance, then a performance recognisably of that time. Rituals create
themselves, gain impetus, both from the performers’ behaviour and the props
provided: notably a table and a bed. There is more than a scent of Brecht: no
bad thing, especially in Berlin. Clearly the performers have been
well-choreographed, but they also give the impression of being those performers
performing, not just of doing what they have been told. It is a fine
production, which other companies and venues would do well to consider taking
up. ENO or the Barbican perhaps?

The work itself is alluring,
typical of what I know of the composer in its epitomising Webern’s summarising twelve-note
composition as involving imbibing of the method and then composing as before.
Frankly tonal, and yet so clearly, so rigorously organised, its roots lie as
much in, say, Pelléas as Tristan, despite the use on occasion of quotation
and the inevitable comparisons any composer, or indeed artist, will now meet
when daring to treat with this legend. Yes,
it comes from Joseph Bédier’s novel, Tristan
et Iseut, but facts are no refuge from the overpowering Rausch of Tristan; it is to Martin’s great credit that he is not overpowered,
far from it, without self-conscious distancing. Much of Tristan is, of course, chamber music, whatever ‘popular opinion’
will tell you; here, the ensemble is of true chamber proportions: twelve
voices, two violins, two violas, two cellos, double bass, and piano. Some of
that Second Viennese School sound arises – I could not help but think of
Schoenberg’s wonderful Weihnachtssmusik
– but that more betokens correspondence, if not quite coincidence, than anything
stronger. It is a true oratorio, too, with roots in a great tradition but,
again, not overwhelmed by it. Narrative works on its own terms, rather than as
that of an opera manqué.

Anna Prohaska (SOPRAN 2 | ISEUT LA BLONDE)

Franck Ollu conducted the
excellent soloists (Wolfram Brandl, Yunna Shevchenko, Boris Bardenhagen,
Nikolaus Janhjohr-Popa, Mathias Winkler, Frank-Immo Zichner) from the
Staatskapelle Berlin. He seemed to me to do a very good job, sensitive to
music, to drama, to the way the two combine and keep their distance (especially
in a production such as this). But in a performance such as this, the element
of chamber music is at least as important, and here the Berlin orchestra’s long
tradition, aided and abetted by Daniel Barenboim, of subdivision into chamber
ensembles, truly paid off. The singers impressed too, though perhaps a little
more of Martin’s quasi-madrigalian intent might have been communicated at
times. The intent was worlds away, of course, from today’s early-music world,
but a hint or two of something akin to Nadia Boulanger’s singers – their Monteverdi
still rules at least a certain roost – would have bound them together more
closely. Anna Prohaska shone as Iseut, her voice revealing considerable
deepness as well as purity of tone. Matthas
Klink made for an ardent yet sensitive Tristan. Ludvig Lindström exhibited a
degree of malevolence which, in terms of psychological realism, is perhaps more
credible, certainly more usual, than that we associate with Wagner’s King Mark.
Yet another feather, then, in the Staatsoper’s cap.

Philipp Stölzl’s Deutsche
Oper production of Parsifal replaced
Gotz Friedrich’s offering from 1998 last season; I was able, in a feat of
Wagnerian dedication unusual even for me, to see it revived just three days
after Leipzig’s Good Friday staging of the Bühnenweihfestspiel. The opening might have made still
stronger an impression on Good Friday: a depiction of what might be considered
the work’s foundational myth, the Crucifixion, as the first-act Prelude offered
musical and philosophical explanation as to why it might have been necessary –
or, alternatively, why, in Michael Tanner’s analysis, following that of Robert
Raphael, it might be necessary to stop Christ ascending the Cross.
In a sense, Stölzl concurs; in a sense he does not. It might be necessary, but
in the sorry consequences lain out, there is no chance of accomplishing such a
need, whether symbolised by Parsifal or otherwise. What we see is one of the most
accomplished and indeed extreme stagings I have yet witnessed from a school
which, doubtless partially but not entirely unreasonably, understands Monsalvat
as a religious community that has gone horribly, in this case irredeemably,
wrong. In this Hell-on-Earth – is Hell not where Christ Himself sojourned
before rising on Easter morning? – of religious fanaticism, lascivious, Opus
Dei-tinged relish is taken in self-chastisement prior to continual re-enactment
of deicide. Unable to look beyond the tableaux vivants which just about keep
the community alive, its members re-present kitsch, yes, but deadly kitsch. Carl Dahlhaus's observation regarding the action's characterisation by 'inclination towards ritual and tableau' reveals, perhaps obsessively but certainly with conviction, a darker side indeed.

Stölzl’s creation is not
merely anti-Christian, more anti-religious, perhaps with respect both to
organised religion and to transcendence. The Flowermaidens are initially more
geological than blooming, seemingly hewn from the rock of Klingsor’s Tora
Bora-like lair, before their brief moment of colour. Likewise, Kundry’s
burqa-clad appearance – interestingly, quite unsensationalised – makes its
point before her unveiling. All the while, the second act proceedings, perhaps
an Orientalist ‘other’ to the sick ritualism of Monsalvat, are haunted by the
sacrifice of a comely knight who has, perhaps tired of his moribund community,
repeated Amfortas’s temptation and fall. Even when the would-be Crusader Parsifal
is acclaimed, Resurrection never comes. At the moment of what would be healing,
Amfortas impales himself upon the proffered spear: a way out, perhaps, but not
that envisaged either by the Church or by Wagner. Perhaps Stölzl heeds John
Deathridge’s warning of resolution in 'high-minded kitsch'. It is not how we should always
wish to experience the work, and the redemption of redemption, above all in
music, achieved by, Stefan Herheim is unavailable in a staging that pursues one
concept single-mindedly rather than having them dialectically interact as
Wagner himself did. There is room for both.

Axel Kober led the fine
Deutsche Oper Orchestra, which put not a foot wrong, in an honest, sensitive
account, which, if it neither scaled the Boulezian dramatic heights nor plumbed the
Gattian religious depths, told Wagner’s musical story well. Stefan Vinke’s
proved untiring in the title role, though there were times when his vocal
stridency proved a little too much. If the Knights had compared his tone with
the warmth and humanity of Hans-Peter König’s Gurnemanz, they might have
decided to enthrone the latter instead. Evelyn Herlitzius offered a duly
committed performance as Kundry; her vocal wildness might have benefited from taming
earlier in the second act, for there were undeniable passages of questionable
intonation, but her wounded-animal reaction to Parsifal’s rejection offered a
great musico-dramatic experience. Bo Skovhus’s detailed attention towards
music, words, gesture, and their interaction was highly to be commended as
Amfortas. Moreover, Tobias Kehrer made more of a mark than many as a
deep-voiced Titurel. Knights, esquires, and Flowermaidens were of a
consistently high standard, a credit to the company as a whole, likewise the
truly excellent singing from William Spaulding’s chorus, its movement blocked with equal excellence. This was a Parsifal demanding both to be seen and
to be heard.

Perhaps one of the more
surprising yet ultimately most significant revelations of Wagner Year for me
was this Leipzig production of Die Feen and
the conviction it furthered that Wagner’s first opera was not merely ‘interesting’,
not merely ‘promising’, and so on, but a work which had been poorly, extremely
unfairly treated by history – or rather by the lazy judgements of those
claiming, and usually failing, to know the opera. Doubtless there will be
exceptions – there are, after all, people who do not take to Parsifal – but I have yet to speak to
anyone who has actually attended a performance of Die Feen who has not thought highly of it, if not necessarily quite
so highly as I do. Uncannily, it was a
year to the day – 20 April 2013 – when I heard that Leipzig performance as part of the first
outing for Renaud Doucet’s delightful yet not unprobing staging. 20 April 2014
actually brought me to tears as the third act drew to a close, both delighted
at the opportunity and saddened at the condescension or just downright
ignorance with which this wonderful work still meets.

So three cheers once again to
Oper Leipzig. I shall not dwell on the staging, essentially because I have
written about it before, along with some background both to the work and to
other productions (click here),
and the revival serves to confirm rather than to transform its qualities. On
this basis, I should happily see more, metatheatricality worn lightly,
humorously, yet tellingly. The metatheatricality, as I observed previously, is
worn lightly yet wittily frames the performance – and reminds us, again
lightly, that occasions such as this are few and far between. Following a
Saturday evening family meal, a father tunes in to a live broadcast of Die Feen from Oper Leipzig. In something
of a modern fairy-tale, his living room becomes the performance space, blurring
of typical performing boundaries in a sense a counterpart to the blurring – yet
ultimate upholding – of the world of immortality, the world of the fairies, to
which, as Arindal, he, through the workings of his imagination, had
exceptionally been admitted. In both cases, and above all through the medium of
music – tellingly, in a clear echo of Orpheus and his lyre, that is how Wagner
brings the story to reconciliation – this man, perhaps unremarkable and yet receptive
and dedicated, brings different worlds together. It is not a bad model for
artistic endeavour in more general terms: we all have our part to play, but the
question is whether we shall be willing.

Where Ulf Schirmer had tended
more towards the early Romantic tendencies undoubtedly present in Wagner’s
score – Mendelssohn, Marschner, Weber, and so on – Matthias Foremny seemed more
concerned to place Wagner in the line he himself would later stress, if not
necessarily for this work. Beethoven’s example stood more clearly than before: both the symphonic
and the operatic composer. More than once I was put in mind of Wagner's early,
underrated C major Symphony, but also of the advances he had made upon his work
since then. Sometimes this worked better than others; there were occasions, for
instance, when forward thrust was occasioned perhaps at the expense of ebb and
flow. But for the most part, this was a valid, thought-provoking performance,
which brought out something close to the best of the Leipzig Gewandhaus
Orchestra. Its ‘old German’ glow seemed almost as much a welcome resurrection
as that of the work itself, though in reality, of course, the former has never
really gone away; it is more the case that one has to look, or listen, harder
to find it in an age in which orchestral homogenisation is all too often the
rule.

Morald (Matthias Hausmann) and Lora (Eun Yee You)

Arnold Bezuyen once again
impressed in the title role, not least in his portrayal of the difficult
compromise between domesticity and the heroism that our paterfamilias imagines.
There was some tiring towards the end of the third act, but Bezuyen recovered
well. I had not encountered Elisabet Strid before, but she certainly impressed
as Ada, a worthy successor to last year’s Christiane Libor. If only a woman in
the centre stalls had not loudly coughed throughout the whole of Ada’s great
second-act aria, so clearly inspired by Wilhelmine Schröder-Devrient (the aria,
that is, rather than the coughing). Strid nevertheless rose above such selfish
provocation to give a fine account of that extremely difficult number. Eun Yee
You still seemed stretched as Lora, but had somewhat grown into the role.
Mathias Hausmann offered a strong performance as Morald, whilst Paula Rummel
and Milcho Borovinov delighted in their surprising buffo duet – and not just there. Though perhaps a little too much
of a contrast for consistency to be maintained, it is a lovely piece and so it
sounded here; the pair’s acting skills contributed as much as their musicality.
The Leipzig Opera Chorus also made great contributions in both respects: their
role here is often considerable, and gave no little pleasure on this occasion.

I shall conclude by repeating
my pleas both for this excellent production to be filmed, so that others may
see – and hear – it, and for other houses to follow Leipzig’s suit. This is a
work that has been wronged indeed; it is our responsibility finally to right
that wrong.

For reasons
that remain unclear, Manon Lescaut
seems recently to have become ubiquitous. In the United Kingdom, both Welsh
National Opera and the Royal Opera are offering new productions this season.
Sir Simon Rattle has been leading the Berlin Philharmonic in this, his first
Italian opera; Munich will soon be staging it; and so on, and so on. Doubtless
the plans and availability of ‘star’ singers, not least Jonas Kaufmann, play a
role, but that does not seem to be the whole story. A good few stagings of, for
instance, La fanciulla del West,
suggest that houses and audiences may be keen to hear Puccini works beyond the
central triptych of Bohème, Tosca, and Madama Butterfly; maybe they are even tiring of those dangerously
over-exposed works.Leipzig got in a
little earlier with this 2006 production by Giancarlo Monaco, conducted at its
premiere by Riccardo Chailly, and now revived under Anthony Bramall.

Dancing Master (Martin Petzhold) and Manon (Nadja Michael)

The version
employed, the 1893 original version for Turin, as edited by Roger Parker for
Ricordi, was Chailly’s choice. Though Puccini would continue to tinker, in particular
long Manon’s fourth act aria, ‘Sola, perduta, abbandonata’, until reinstating
it, slightly modified, for the thirtieth-anniversary performance at La Scala in
1923, the principal difference here concerns the first act finale. Before both the
vocal score was published and the first La Scala performance (1894), Puccini followed
Luigi Illica’s suggestion and wrote a different ending. Here we therefore heard
what Mosco Carner, in his New Grove
article on the opera, describes – justly – as a ‘conventional pezzo
concertato, based on the melody of “Donna non vidi mai”’. Chailly
considered this original finale ‘more serious’, drawing Wagnerian comparisons.
I wish I could hear them, for frankly, to my ears, the first act as a whole is
ultimately rather dull, considerably less characteristic of the composer than
the second act, let alone the much stronger third and fourth – which seem to me
to have more of Wagner in them too. (Puccini had visited Bayreuth n 1889 and
1890.) Still, for those with ears to
hear, this is clearly an interesting opportunity to hear Puccini’s first
thoughts.

The Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra played splendidly, gaining depth and
lustre as the score did the same. The Wagnerian harmonies – Tristan a little too obvious perhaps,
though one might say the same of some early Schoenberg too – of the Intermezzo
registered with a golden glow that was very much this great orchestra’s own.
Bramall kept the score moving, but although a disinclination to bend the knee to sentimentality can only be applauded, there were occasions when he might
have relaxed a little more, stiffness sometimes replacing a more natural ebb
and flow. (A more ‘Wagnerian’ approach would certainly be welcome here.)

The principal problem, however, was Nadja Michael’s assumption of the
title role. As with other occasions I
have heard her – Salome at Covent
Garden, for instance – she seemed incapable of singing in tune. Vibrato of a
variety that occludes distinctions between one or two degrees of the scale may
or may not be overlooked. Persistently flat intonation, of a nature that had
one wondering whether she was attempting ‘historically informed’ or maybe
‘deformed’ Puccini at Baroque pitch, is another matter again. Michael, as is
her wont, threw herself enthusiastically into the role and exhibited undoubted
stage presence, but musical considerations can hardly be cast aside here. That
said, matters improved – somewhat, though far from entirely – in the third and
fourth acts. Her gymnast’s bow during the curtain calls proved equally
memorable. To his great credit, José
Fardilha held his own with respect to intonation: no mean feat in duets. His
was indeed a creditable performance throughout: typically Italianate in spirit,
but fully in technical control. The other particularly impressive performance
was James Moellenhoff’s Geronte, dark and deep of tone to an extent that
suggested a Prince Gremin. Smaller roles were well taken, and choral singing
was of a high quality throughout.

Lescaut (José Fardilha) and Manon

The chorus
moved well on stage too, its blocking adding distinction to Monaco’s
attractive, if ultimately somewhat conventional production. Despite the
updating to the 1920s and certain cinematic references, it was difficult to
glean any particular insights. The madrigalists looked a little too much like
refugees from an imitation Otto Schenk Rosenkavalier
to convince for Paris.Still,
Johannes Leiacker’s set designs and Birgit Wensch’s costumes retained their
period lustre, and the starkness of the desert for the fourth act offered
welcome contrast, also permitting one to focus more or less entirely on the
plight of the doomed lovers. A silent film interlude, taken from Arthur
Robinson’s 1926 Manon Lescaut,opened the second act; it did not,
however, fill in the gap in the action, that is, when the lovers live together,
but rather foretold what was to come. Perhaps surprisingly, no such footage was
used during the Intermezzo. It was a little difficult to understand why.